But it’s not enough.
I tear into the closet. Dig through the discarded shirts on the floor and grab the shoe box where Gemma hid all my Veronica keepsakes. I dump the box on the floor in the middle of my room and pick through trinkets from a year of dating. Movie ticket stubs. Strips of photo booth pictures taken at the mall. Notes passed discreetly at coven meetings. It’s all going to burn.
Back at my closet, I search underneath my small altar to the Sister Goddesses, tossing aside used candles and heavy crystals until I find the half-used book of matches. I return to the pile of memories, pluck a single match from its root, and strike.
The power is instant, rippling across my skin, sending shivers of desire across my flesh. I separate the fire and hold it in my hands. The heat grows, looking for something to consume.
I pick up the first picture in the pile. Our last trip to the mall before Veronica made her move and kissed me. Just days before I knew I was anything other than straight. I let the flame lick across the back of the photo, and then Ipush, burning a hole that consumes Veronica’s smug face.
The front of the photo bubbles up and spits an acrid smoke into the air. The smell almost makes me gag. I grab the small garbage can from beside my desk and drag it to the middle of the room, letting the bits of charred photograph drop into the metal can instead of my floor. The fire jumps and dances, destroying every last bit of the picture then licking across my palm, like a dog looking for a second treat.
Every picture burns to ash. Every letter. Everything she ever touched. I’d burn the memories right out of my brain if I could. What else? There must be something else. I turn and scan the room. There! The stupid self-portrait I used to love.She can’t call me broken after this.
I lunge for the frame, careful to keep the flames from catching on my wall.
“Hannah?” Mom slips into my room, a horrified look on her face. “Honey, don’t destroy that.” She eases the frame from my hand, and with a wave of her palm, extinguishes every bit of fire in the room.
Anger still burns inside, and I want to snatch the picture back. I want to tear it into a thousand pieces. But I don’t. I can’t afford to make this worse.
Mom surprises me. Instead of the reprimand I’m expecting, she sets the picture gently against my desk and sits on my bed. She pats the spot beside her. “Talk to me, Hannah. What happened?”
Cautious, I sit beside my mom, still half-worried a binding ring is in my future. “I found Veronica—” My words die in my throat, choked by a surge of emotion that comes out of nowhere. I burst into tears and bury my face in my hands.
Mom rubs little circles on my back, the way she used to when I wasn’t feeling well as a kid. She waits patiently, letting me cry snotty tears into her shoulder. I try to explain, but through the hiccupping sobs I don’t get out much more than: “Found her... sleeping... with Savannah...”
Somehow, Mom manages to understand. “I’m so sorry, baby. It’s hard when the people we loved move on without us.”
I swipe the tears away with soot-covered hands, and I’m sure I have smudges all over my face from burning Veronica’s pictures.“It’s not just that. Veronica gave me so much shit for going on a date with this girl, Morgan. That’s the reason she left the night she was supposed to stay here. She acted so upset, but the whole time she was having sex with Savannah anyway!”
Mom cringes, and I wonder if it’s sympathy or simply the sheer awkwardness that is listening to your daughter talk about her ex-girlfriend’s sex life. She pulls away and considers me. “Wait. What date? Who’s Morgan?”
Ugh. This whole being terrible at lying thing is getting really old. “It was nothing, Mom. She’s in Gemma’s dance class.”
“And she’s a Reg?” Mom asks, even though she knows the answer. “Is this the girl from that party?”
“Mom,” I groan. “You’re supposed to be helping me feel better, not giving me the third degree about the girl I have a crush on.”
“Right. We can talk about that later,” she says, which isn’t ideal but at least gives me time to come up with a good story about why I lied about the extra shift at the Cauldron. “How can I help? Does ice cream still heal all Veronica-shaped wounds?”
Warmth fills my chest. “It certainly won’t hurt.”
•••
I’m on lockdown for three days. My parents keep me home from work, and there’s always someone in the house with me. Mom or Dad. My grandmother or another coven adult. Between the protection detail on Veronica’s house and the extra company at mine, the coven is stretched thin.
At least my parents replace my lost phone, giving me some contact to the outside world. The first text I get is from Veronica,though, and seeing her number pop up makes me want to throw the new phone against the wall. I almost do, until I also get a text from Morgan. Gemma must have told her about the accident, and Morgan offers to come over and keep me company.
I decline, more than a little reluctantly, blaming the constant surveillance from my parents. We spend the days apart live-texting each other as we binge-watch cooking shows from our separate houses, salivating over the culinary masterpieces. Morgan asks to watch my baking skills in action, which gives me an idea for the date I’m planning—the one we’ll go on as soon as I get out of this damn house.
Finally, on the fourth day after the accident, my parents lift quarantine. We’re only going to Lady Ariana’s house, but it’s better than nothing. Our usual Tuesday lesson has been canceled, replaced by a full-coven meeting. Mom’s hopeful there will be updates about the Hunter, but Dad isn’t so sure. More than anything, he’s glad Lady Ariana has agreed to let Detective Archer teach us some Council-approved self-defense.
Trees whiz by my window, the sun still bright in the sky. I hate the winter months, when the sun disappears before we’ve eaten dinner. I’m not sure how I feel about seeing Detective Archer again. I worry he’ll take one look at me and know about the other texts I’ve been avoiding the past few days.
Texts from Gemma, counting down the seconds until she gets out of the hospital, until she can ask questions I’m not allowed to answer. I’ve been simultaneously strategizing for this conversation and convincing myself it’ll never happen, but I’m running out of time. She could be released any day now.
Mom pulls the car into Lady Ariana’s driveway, parking behind Sarah and Rachel’s black hatchback. Veronica’s caris parked along the street, on the other side of the driveway. I suppress a groan. She’s thelastperson I want to see right now. I’ve glanced at her texts the past few days, but since not one of them contained an apologyorany concern about my well-being, I’ve ignored them.
“Hannah? Is everything okay?” Dad pokes his head back in the car. I hadn’t realized he and Mom already got out. “We don’t want to be late.”
